


Hyperion Manor: a Gothic Romance

by Malifique



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: All of the Tropes, Alternate Universe - Historical, Clothing Porn, D/s themes, Grief/Mourning, I hope you like melodrama, Jack is a menace, M/M, Polyamory, Rhys is a dandy, Slow Burn, Tim is lonely, a whole lotta pining, complicated feelings, cross-dressing, holy anachronisms batman, learning to love again, long and plotty, subverting gender norms, vague Regency setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26244496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malifique/pseuds/Malifique
Summary: Hyperion Manor, once the gathering place for the cream of society, has fallen silent since the tragic fire. Now half in ruin, rumour has it that a furious ghost haunts its dark corridors.Rhys doesn’t believe in ghosts. He believes in money, gratification, and the drape of a sharply-tailored coat. Forced to seek shelter at the manor, he encounters there two brothers: the warm and gracious Captain Timothy Lawrence, and the older, tempestuous Lord Jonathan ‘Jack’ Lawrence.Drawn into the web of their complicated lives, Rhys must learn to hold his own against their different desires, and perhaps make a broken family whole again.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands), Timothy Lawrence/Rhys
Comments: 20
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very self indulgent exercise in having hot guys do kinky stuff in period clothing. But first, a lot of vaguely menacing buildup!

The ground squelched between his heels as he stepped off the carriage. Rhys winced and bid his new boots a sad goodbye. The week of rain had bogged the road thoroughly, and while the carriage had made a valiant effort through the day, it had at long last beached in a particularly deep ditch. Rhys was learning no less than a dozen new colourful phrases as the driver tried without success to dislodge them. 

He looked at the dense woods on either side of the road, and then at the dark clouds pressing down overhead. In the watery light of late afternoon everything looked old and tired. Unseen birds cried mournfully. They might well be the last people left on earth. 

“Best find shelter before dark, good sir,” the driver said. “There are wolves and brigands about, if the storm don’t catch you first.”

Rhys darted another look at the woods and shivered. “Do you know of an inn nearby?”

The driver gave the bogged wheel a kick. “No luck, I’m afraid. The next town is two hours’ ride away.”

Damn. He glimpsed a parting between the trees that might well be another road. Assuming there was a house at the end of it, he could seek shelter, if only for the night, and be on his merry way again come morning. 

“Do you know if that path leads anywhere?” he asked.

The driver’s face darkened. “You’d be better off with the wolves, sir. That there is Hyperion Manor. Used to be a great house, but now it’s haunted by a most furious ghost.”

“Haunted?” Ridiculous. “Do people still live there?”

“Not any sort you’d wish to mingle with.”

Well, as long as they were the sort to have a warm meal and a clean bed then Rhys wasn’t fussed. He made his payment and bid the driver to bring down his travel case. 

The large trunk was a custom made item of most ingenious design, because he was the one who had designed it. When closed up, it was an oblong of dark green leather about the height of a tall child and twice as wide. Hidden within it was his entire livelihood. It had cost him most of his savings to have it made, but in the years since it had more than returned his initial investment. 

He shouldered the wide leather straps and hoisted it onto his back. He had been told that wearing his trunk made him look like a rather angular tortoise, and the going was not much faster, but this was the one occasion when he was willing to sacrifice form for function. 

He tipped his hat at the driver then turned up the road to Hyperion Manor. The driver’s grumbles followed him, but Rhys wouldn’t be where he was in life if he cared a fig about another man’s opinions. 

The road was poorly kept, overgrown and uneven, made all the more hard going by the sucking mud. It was a struggle keeping his footing with the heavy trunk on his back. But Rhys wasn’t about to let something so trivial as a long walk dissuade him from a goal. 

His confidence deflated a little as the house came fully into view: what he had mistook for shadow at a distance now looked to be fire damage. Most of the southern wing appeared heavily scorched, the stone facade blackened by heat, the glassless windows staring out at him with their blind eyes. 

The remainder of the house was in relatively better condition. Beneath the creeping ivy he could see signs of what must have once been a grand estate: at three levels high, the frontage dominated the end of the path. Its gabled roofs were decorated with ornate eaves and chimneys; statuary lined the steps leading to the oversized front door. It looked big enough to host a platoon.

Rhys had never understood why the wealthy insisted on so much space to rattle around in. The draughts alone would be awful. But then he had not settled anywhere long enough to call home in years, so he supposed he made for a poor judge. 

He worried at his lip, pondering the wisdom of knocking on that front door. The rumours of a haunting was a little easier to believe now that he had seen the place, even if he didn’t hold with such superstitions. But the evening was setting in and he could feel rain in the wind. He did not fancy spending a night out under the trees; a man had standards, no matter how low he might currently be in life. 

Moreover, he could glimpse light in the intact parts of the house, and that was enough to bolster his courage. He could request a warm supper and a clean bed to sleep in, and things always looked better in the morning. 

Right as he headed for the front entrance, a long shadow came streaking out from the side of the house. What he had thought was distant thunder resolved into a bone deep growl that raised all the small hairs on his body. 

_Wolf._

Panic kicked him in the chest. The woods pressed in awfully close against the great house and it was not impossible that a hungry beast would lurk so close to human habitation. Instinctively he turned and tried to run, but there was another shadow behind him, blocking his escape. The creature let out a thundering bark, spittle flying from its maw. In the gloaming light all he could see was the glint of razor sharp fangs and the glow of murder in its eyes. 

It crouched low like it was preparing to lunge. Rhys screamed, tripped over his own feet and fell hard onto his backside. His hat tumbled into the mud. His trunk juddered on impact and broke open, spilling its contents across the filthy ground. Even in the midst of panic his heart lurched painfully.

“Cerberus, Barghest, heel!” A deep male voice rang out.

The beasts looked around at the sound. Rhys saw now that the two were not wolves but rather huge hounds, dark as soot and sleek as knives. What he had thought was the glow of hell in their eyes was only the red sunset reflected. 

A rider came tearing out of the woods and leapt from the saddle, two spots of colour high in his cheeks. He whistled sharply. The two dogs instantly dropped their hackles and sat back, tongues lolling from their great mouths as if they hadn’t been about to rip the flesh from Rhys’ throat. 

No longer at risk from imminent death, Rhys could now feel cold mud soaking through his thin breeches. Panic was edging into hot anger. He surveyed the ruin of his things and fought the urge to cry. Scattered across the ground was all his worldly possessions: shears, buttons, bolts of expensive cloth whose bold colours splashed bright and startling against the grey path. The two hounds had trod over his favourite roll of chinoiserie fabric, a vibrant print of aquamarine birds of paradise entwined with red camellias, now all over with muddy paw prints.

“I’m so terribly sorry, we do not get many visitors and the hounds are excitable. Are you hurt?” The rider crouched down beside him and held out Rhys’ lost hat in contrition. Rhys took it, forcing himself not to snatch, and looked him full in the face.

The man was classically handsome with an expressive mouth and, most interestingly, heterochromatic eyes, one green and one blue. Both were wide with shock and recognition.

Rhys frowned. “I’m fine, though the same cannot be said for my things. Is there some mark on my face?”

The rider blinked and schooled his face to a more appropriate impersonal friendliness. “My apologies, I mistook you for someone else. I’m Captain Timothy Lawrence, but please call me Timothy.”

The over-familiarity was grating, as if they were friends instead of madman and victim. “Rhys Strongfork,” he replied, ignoring the proffered hand and climbing to his feet, grimacing at the clammy touch of his begrimed breeches. He slipped the leather straps off his shoulders and eased his trunk to the ground. 

“Are you sure you’re unhurt? Your right arm appears a little stiff.”

“That arm is beyond injury,” Rhys said, and didn’t explain further. When he knelt to pick up his scattered things, Captain Lawrence didn’t hesitate to get down in the muck and help. A little of Rhys’ anger eased at the sight. 

Whatever was clean enough they packed into the trunk, and the rest Captain Lawrence bundled into his arms, heedless of the mud it left on his person. “Please do come in,” he said to Rhys. “The least I can do is to offer you a meal and shelter for the night.”

Rhys considered saying no, but good sense beat out his stubbornness by a hair. It was much too late in the day for him to try and find another place, even if there was an alternative. He nodded stiffly.

The other man grinned like Rhys had given him a hearty affirmative. “Wonderful. It is good to have visitors again.” He turned and whistled for the dogs, who trotted sedately beside him. Rhys eyed the beasts warily and followed. 

As they made their way inside, Rhys took the opportunity to study the other man. Captain Lawrence was perhaps in his late thirties, with the straight bearing typical of a military man. His clothing was plain but expensive wool, the cut of his deep green coat a few years out of fashion. Long, muscled legs rose from the top of his boots, filling out his pale breeches in a way that would be the envy of any man. Despite his black mood, Rhys noted with a professional eye that admirable shoulder to hip ratio. In better circumstances it would be his pleasure to dress such a man. 

The inside of the house was not quite as frightful as the scarred outside had suggested. The foyer opened onto an oversized staircase winding its sinuous way to the upper floors. The furnishings were lavish, if a little tired looking, and the high ceilings were wrought in ornate plasterwork. Rhys had been in enough grand estates to deduce that the Lawrences were old money, and certainly wealthy enough to be able to recover from even the most devastating fires. The mystery was why the burned portion had been allowed to languish in ruin. 

A flurry of servants came to attend them. One led him to the guest quarters and drew him a bath while the others busied themselves with readying the room. 

Once they had departed, Rhys undressed and laid each item of clothing carefully aside.

He had worn one of his best outfits for the journey. As a travelling couturier, he was his own best assistant, clothes horse and advertisement all in one. He preferred a bright palate, not only because it caught the eye, but the colours also offset nicely his pale complexion and dark hair. A successful businessman must use every advantage at his disposal, and Rhys was well aware that his boyish good looks garnered near as much interest as the very nice clothes he made. 

He set aside his peacock green coat, then his yellow brocade waistcoat and cravat the colour of fresh cream. His oxblood boots could be salvaged with a good polish, but his breeches were another matter. He made a noise of dismay as he examined the muddy seat of the expensive buckskin. There was nothing to be done, these would have to be disposed of. 

As tempting as it was to have a long soak, he was well aware that his host was awaiting his reappearance. Still, it was a relief to remove his prosthesis for a little while. The limb was cleverly made and well fitted, but after a long day it was good to undo the various straps and let the calloused skin beneath breathe a little.

He freshened up as quickly as he could and threw on a clean outfit, something less showy but nevertheless pleasing to the eye: cornflower blue waistcoat, tan tails and a silk cravat. He gave himself a quick assessment in the looking glass. His luck might have taken a tumble arse-over-teakettle, but at least he still looked a million dollars. 

*

Captain Lawrence was already at the table when he arrived, along with a young girl dressed all in black. Bright blue eyes set in a wan but pleasing face examined him curiously from beneath a dark fringe. 

The table had been set for four, but there were only the three of them here. The dogs, thankfully, were nowhere to be seen. Rhys opted for the seat opposite Captain Lawrence. As he settled, he thanked his host for accommodating him. “You have a lovely home,” he lied. Apart from the devastation of the fire, the rest of the house was just as draughty and gloomy as he had suspected it might be. Half the rooms he passed on the way here were either closed off or had their contents draped in dust cloths, the suggested shapes of furniture beneath them like ghosts of a once glamorous life. 

Captain Lawrence, however, accepted his lie easily. “Thank you, but I am merely Hyperion Manor’s caretaker. My brother and Miss Lawrence here are the rightful owners.”

“I hate it here,” the girl said with surprising vehemence.

“Angel,” Captain Lawrence admonished. 

Rhys secretly agreed with her frank assessment. He gave Miss Lawrence a wink and a smile, and she dipped her head. He took the opportunity to examine her more closely. Like Captain Lawrence, her clothes were out of fashion but well made. The lace of her dress came up high to her chin, giving her a severeness unsuitable for a girl of her age, and she wore gloves even at the table, which was unusual. Though the black material threatened to swallow her up, beneath the demure manners there was a steeliness to her bearing. 

Rhys as a rule was not overly fond of children, though he suspected he might make an exception for her. 

The first courses were served while the last seat remained empty. Neither of his hosts seemed to expect it to be filled.

Examining the array of cutlery before him, Rhys took a breath and fortified himself. Time for the test. 

How people reacted to the sight of his prosthesis told him much about their character, and made for a good measure of who he could respect and who should be dismissed. With that in mind, he pulled off his gloves and took up his knife with a practiced motion. The silver made for a lovely complement to the polished wood of his articulated fingers.

Captain Lawrence only looked momentarily startled before he gave Rhys a smile. “Oh, now I understand your earlier comment. How remarkable.” No overt staring, rude comments or, worst of all, pity. Not bad. Captain Lawrence might be as genuine as he appeared. Rhys let himself relax a little and tucked into his dinner.

The food was not extravagant, but after days on the road it might as well be ambrosia. He had to make himself eat at a measured pace, taking second helpings only when offered. It didn’t escape his notice that Captain Lawrence offered more than was strictly necessary. It couldn’t be helped; Rhys had always been long and thin, with the particular kind of face that made matrons (and now apparently military men) want to feed him.

Miss Lawrence spent much of dinner sneaking glances at his hand, but children were by nature curious, so he didn’t hold it against her. 

As they ate, Captain Lawrence made a valiant attempt to keep the conversation flowing. “What brings you through these parts, Mr Strongfork? It’s unusual for anyone other than the mail coach to come knocking at our door.”

Rhys made an effort to cast aside his annoyance. Since their disastrous introduction, the Captain had been nothing but warm and gracious. It would be churlish of him to begrudge the man a little conversation. Rhys drew from his deep well of charm and gave him a smile. “I was on my way to the city when my carriage met with some trouble. Gentlemen and ladies in need of a new wardrobe commission me to outfit them. It’s a calling that takes me to many corners of our fine country, though I am currently between patrons.”

“How does it work?” The Captain seemed genuinely interested.

“I visit the household to discuss their wants, make my measurements, and stay for however long it’s required to deliver to my clients’ satisfaction. Everything I need is in my travel trunk.” _Which is now in complete disarray, no thanks to your hellacious beasts._

Captain Lawrence gave him a contrite smile. “I do apologize again. I will of course recompense you for everything that might be unrecoverable. My brother usually keeps a firmer hand on the hounds, though he has been rather indisposed of late.”

The brother again. Rhys glanced at the spare setting at the head of the table. Lord Lawrence must be quite the busy man if he could not attend dinner with his own family. What kind of gentleman left his home in disrepair and allowed his hellhounds free rein to terrorise unsuspecting callers? A rough and rude sort, no doubt. Rhys knew better than most that money didn’t necessarily mean class, even among the landed gentry.

“I couldn’t help but notice the damage to the southern wing,” he said. “The fire must have been quite devastating.”

Miss Lawrence stared resolutely at her plate. The Captain took a long sip from his wine glass and sighed. “Yes, a great number of precious things were lost.”

There were yawning pits of sorrow in his tone. Too late Rhys made the connections: the girl dressed head to toe in mourning black, the table set for only one more, the total absence of a Lady Lawrence from the conversation. Great houses such as this tended to be littered with portraits of the family, but the walls here were stark and bare. 

Mortified, he stammered out an apology. “Forgive me, I spoke out of turn and meant no disrespect.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Captain Lawrence said easily. “It’s only natural for someone to wonder why we would choose to live in such a house. I can only say that it is the will of Hyperion’s Lord. Now tell me, Mr Strongfork, you must have been to many interesting places in your travels…” 

With great expertise the Captain steered the conversation to safer waters. Gratefully Rhys seized onto the topic. He spoke at length about the places he had been. He had a knack for sparkling conversation, a necessary skill when you spent much of your life in the company of strangers, and soon he had both his hosts enraptured by his embellished tales of adventure. 

The rest of the dinner passed easily. As Rhys rose from the table, he realised he had enjoyed himself and his hosts’ company. Not a total disaster of a day then. 

As the dinner things were being cleared away, Captain Lawrence said, “If you need anything please be sure to ask. The servants leave between sundown and morning, so I’m afraid we’ll have to make do on our own in the evenings.”

That was fine, Rhys was used to taking care of himself, but having no servants overnight was certainly odd practice for a household of this calibre. “That seems unusual.”

“It’s because of the ghost,” Miss Lawrence said matter of factly.

“Angel, please,” Captain Lawrence said, long suffering. “My apologies, Mr Strongfork, my niece reads too much and has a very active imagination.”

“He’s angry and mean and he’ll eat the flesh from your bones,” she said with an unladylike amount of relish. 

“I do ask that you do not wander into the southern wing,” Captain Lawrence went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “The damage is extensive, and I cannot account for the soundness of the floors.”

Rhys promised he would not. His backside was still tender from earlier; he was in no hurry to take another tumble. 

*

Just as foretold, after dinner the servants departed in droves, leaving the house even more dreary than before. The Lawrences bid him good night and each retired to their own rooms. 

As Rhys readied himself for bed, events of the day circled his mind in anxious loops. It was reassuring that Captain Lawrence had promised to replace his ruined things, but that still put an unavoidable delay to his plans. It would take time to source all the fabrics that made his products so sought after, and though he didn’t wish to spend a minute longer in this foreboding house, it might not be his choice. 

Perhaps it was a by-product of his physical limitations, or just a part of his personality, but Rhys despised not being in control of his own fate. He had overcome so much in his twenty-seven years to make a reputation for himself as someone the rich and powerful vied for. It irked him when the universe saw fit to remind him that he was just a leaf caught in life’s unpredictable currents. 

His room was cold but the bed was clean and soft. Despite the edginess buzzing under his skin, Rhys fell asleep easily in the way that was common to someone who never settled in one place for long. But his dreams were fitful, creaking and groaning like a house full of shadows. At some point he thought he heard the crunch of carriage wheels outside his window and a woman’s laughter, shrill in the night, but his dreams pulled him beneath their dark waters again. 

When he did startle awake, he stared up at the deeply shadowed ceiling and tried to recall what had woken him. The storm had broken while he slept. Rain now pelted the windows of his room in driving sheets. Judging by the inky quality of the light, it was sometime past midnight, in that period where the shadows were at their deepest. As he lay there, ears straining and senses on high alert, he caught that noise again: a faint moaning that rose and fell, like wind blowing through a keyhole. 

All the small hairs rose on his body. It was foolishness of course; ghosts belonged in the pages of a penny dreadful, not in the rational world. But it was not difficult to imagine that if they did exist, they would haunt the dreary corridors of this awful house. 

The moaning came again, rising sharply. Suddenly furious, Rhys threw back his covers and got to his feet. After the day he had, he refused to be cowed by some imaginary poltergeist. Most likely an animal had found its way inside the house and was trying to get back out. He would solve the mystery of that ruckus and get back to his warm bed. 

He threw a silk kimono over his night clothes and grabbed the gas lamp. He debated putting on his arm, but the straps and clasps took much too long and he was keen to get back to sleep as soon as humanly possible. In slippered feet he made his way into the corridor and followed that ungodly noise.

If he had thought the house dreary before, it was positively nightmarish in the light of his meagre lamp. Shadows danced maniacally on every wall; things seemed to move at the edge of his vision, but stilled as soon as he darted his eyes to them. He realised suddenly that having the lamp in his only hand meant he had no means to defend himself. But he had come too far to turn back now. He moulded his fear into anger and used it to propel himself forward. 

The sound drew closer, so at least he was headed in the right direction. He didn’t like that it was leading him into the burnt out section of the manor. Captain Lawrence’s warning rang clearly in his mind, but Rhys pushed it aside. 

The moaning was turning into steady cries, the sound like a woman being murdered. The only female still in the house was Miss Lawrence, but this was unmistakably the throaty cries of a grown woman. What kind of animal could possibly be making such noises?

He came to the bottom of a set of iron stairs, spiralling up into the shadows above. Now was the time to turn back. Instead, Rhys gritted his teeth and made his way up, his slippered feet silent on the blackened rungs. 

As he reached the top he spied the glow of light coming from a room, its door ajar. Relief flooded him. There was someone here. Surely no ghost had the need for candles. This was just some inconsiderate person making a ruckus at an ungodly hour. He had half a mind to storm in and give that woman a tongue lashing.

Incandescent with righteous fury, he pushed the door open and froze. What he had thought was a lone woman had company. More accurately, she was pushed up against the wall, arms locked around a familiar figure, ankles crossed above bare, flexing buttocks. Captain Lawrence had his face buried in her naked breasts, his grunts of exertion barely discernible over her caterwauling. 

Not the gallant gentlemen he pretended at, then. Rhys' disappointment vied with disgust at his own naivety. He had been so taken in by the gracious act.

As he turned to leave, the woman opened her eyes and, having spotted him, shrieked. The sound was like a lance through his ear. 

Captain Lawrence lifted his head and looked over his shoulder. Thunder crashed. Rhys plunged into horror like falling through a hole in the ice. 

Instead of those amiably handsome features, this man had a funeral mask covering half of his face, shining bone white in the low light. Cruel lips peeled back in a skeletal grin. 

A scream lodged in his throat. Rhys stumbled back, but there was only air beneath his retreating heel. The lamp dropped from his nerveless fingers. For a long moment he hung there, suspended in darkness, then the stairs came rushing up to meet him. The last thing he saw before the impact was the glint of one mad, green eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhys would totally be the first one to die in a slasher movie.


	2. Chapter 2

There were hands on him, heavy hands pinning him down in the darkness. Rhys thrashed, gasping with fear, fighting his way free.

“Hush, it’s alright, please calm down,” someone said kindly. 

With great effort Rhys pried open his eyes. Captain Lawrence hovered above him. Rhys shrank back in horror, but there was only gentle concern on that perfectly unmarred face. “Oh, thank goodness you’re awake.”

“There was never any danger of him not waking up, I can assure you,” someone else said. 

Rhys looked around wildly, head spinning. They were in his rooms, pale morning light washing over the elegant wallpaper and gilded curtains. What had felt like the clutching grip of death was only the heavy quilt he was laying under. He was in bed, with its soft clean sheets and downy pillows, worlds away from the nightmarish landscape he had ventured through in the dark of night.

Had it all been just a terrible dream?

The other man, an older gentleman with a gaunt face and heavy sideburns, tipped his head in greeting. “Dr Autohn, at your service. You are quite a fortunate man, Mr Strongfork. A fall like that might have snapped your neck. As it is, you have only a mild concussion and some bruising, though you may experience a little dizziness while you heal.”

Rhys reached up and probed gingerly at the back of his head. There was a bandaged lump about the size of a goose egg that was very tender to the touch. The rest of him felt battered and bruised, but everything moved as it should. 

As he took stock, he realised with a start that he was still in his underclothes, and without his arm. His heart sank. 

He could not abide being seen without his prosthesis in place. It made him feel as bare as a newborn babe, and just as helpless. Had the Captain brought him back to his rooms?

“What were you doing in the south wing?” Captain Lawrence asked not unkindly.

Embarrassment bloomed hot on Rhys’ face. He had disregarded a direct request from his host not to go exploring, even after the man had been so welcoming. Haltingly, he said, “There was a noise. I thought--well, I’m not sure what I thought, but I followed it into the burned section. There was a woman there, with--” his face grew hotter at the recollection of her throaty moans. “She was cavorting with the devil.”

Dr Autohn frowned down at him. “Perhaps you hit your head harder than I initially thought.”

“No, I’m certain of what I saw! The devil had your face, Captain, but half of it was bare bone.”

“Ah,” said the Captain. There was a complete lack of surprise on his face. Rhys looked between him and the doctor as the two men exchanged a wordless glance. 

“What? What is ‘ah’?” he demanded. 

The Captain gave him a strained smile. “That was no devil, Mr Strongfork, only Jack.” At Rhys’ look of incomprehension he clarified, “My brother, and the true lord of Hyperion.”

Rhys could feel himself goggling, and clamped his mouth shut with great effort. Surely no gentleman would behave so scandalously. But then, what kind of gentleman lived in a house such as this?

“He found you on the stairs and brought you back here,” the Captain continued.

A shudder ran through Rhys unprompted. The devil had laid its hands on him and carried him in its arms. He struggled to sit up, but a wave of nausea brought him low. As he sagged back into his pillows Dr Autohn held out a placating hand.

“I’m afraid you must rest, Mr Strongfork. You have taken quite a blow and it would be unwise to overexert yourself.”

No. No no no. This was not part of the plan. “No,” he said aloud. “I must be on my way, I have engagements in London I must fulfill.”

Dr Autohn shook his head. “Out of the question. Captain Lawrence, please see to it that Mr Strongfork does not attempt to travel in the next week. I will return to assess his progress, but until then he must remain here.”

Captain Lawrence gave Rhys an apologetic look even as he said, “Yes, I shall, thank you doctor.”

Rhys covered his face and let out a groan, uncaring if it made him seem childish. He did not wish to be here in this dreadful house, no matter how gracious a host Captain Lawrence might be. And there was the matter of his brother. He recalled again that ghastly face and shuddered. He could not help a creeping suspicion that the true owner of Hyperion Manor would not be quite so welcoming.

“We should leave you to rest,” the Captain said diplomatically. “Please do ring for the servants if you require anything.”

Rhys mumbled his thanks, too distraught to pretend at being good company. As the men left him to his own devices Rhys frantically considered his options. He knew no one in town, had lost a significant portion of his wares, and he was at the mercy of Dr Autohn’s orders. There was no choice but to remain at Hyperion Manor for at least the next week.

Head aching, he decided the fastest escape was to heal, and gave himself up to sleep.

He dozed fitfully, vivid dreams of bare, tangled limbs and grinning skulls negating any potentially restorative effects gained. When he woke to a gentle knock at the door it was late afternoon, the weak sunlight already gone from his room.

“Come in,” he said croakily. 

Captain Lawrence entered, carrying a tray of tea and sandwiches. Rhys’ stomach gave a gurgle at the sight. He sat up in bed and made an attempt to neaten his mop of hair. 

The Captain gave him a quick smile and set the tray by his bedside. “I thought you might be hungry, I hope something light is agreeable.”

Rhys mumbled a thanks and fell upon the food. The sandwiches were freshly made, savoury spreads on soft bread with crunching slivers of cucumber and cress. It was mouth-wateringly good for such simple fare, and he devoured it, barely holding back from licking his fingers. When he had sated himself, he took a long drink of the tea. It was warm and made perfectly to his liking. He took another sip and sighed in pleasure. “Thank you, Captain, this is precisely what I needed.”

“It’s my pleasure, and please, call me Timothy.”

Rhys only paused for a little while. The other man had already seen him in his underclothes and without his arm, which was more than some of his lovers had been allowed. It seemed silly to cling to the illusion of decorum. “Of course, Timothy,” he said. “But only if you address me as Rhys.”

At that Timothy gave him a radiant smile. Not for the first time Rhys realised that his host was very pleasing to the eye. It would be beyond foolish to act on the thought of course, and certainly not while he was a guest under Timothy's roof, but it was a nice thought nevertheless.

But Timothy’s very next words quashed any growing warmth. “If you are feeling well enough, I would like you to meet Jack. A proper introduction might put you more at ease.”

Rhys thought of that horrid face and fought back a shiver. He wanted nothing more than to stay here in the safety of his room, basking in Timothy’s warm company. But he was a guest here, and he was beholden to certain rules. It would be unseemly to refuse. “Of course,” he said grudgingly.

Timothy gave him some privacy as he dressed. Rhys took his time putting on his arm, then selected his most ostentatious outfit: aquamarine waistcoat, dove grey tails in a honeycomb pattern and a ruby red cravat. There wasn’t much to be done about his wild mop of hair above the bandaging, more was the pity. 

Generals armoured themselves for battle, and this was his ritual. He had a gnawing feeling that the meeting with the lord of the manor would not go as smoothly as Timothy might expect. 

He followed Timothy down the creaking corridors. The afternoon was growing late, and shadows had begun their slow creep up the walls of the house. Rhys shuddered at the thought of spending another night here, but there was little choice. The doctor would clear him on the next visit, Timothy would help him restock his wares, and then he could be on his way. He just had to get through this one dreary moment after another.

When they entered the parlour the sun was already gone from the room. In the growing dark the ornate furnishing lost their detail, becoming grey shapes among dozens of other shadows. The fireplace was unlit. Seated before it, framed by its dark open mouth, was the devil Rhys had glimpsed in the night. At his feet were the two hellhounds. They bared their fangs at the sight of Rhys, tongue lolling as if laughing at his unease. 

Dimly he heard Timothy announce, “May I present Jonathan Lawrence, Lord of Hyperion Manor.” 

Lord Lawrence wore the same mourning black as his daughter, though it looked more severe on him. Rhys could tell at a glance that the wool of his coat was of the highest quality; his waistcoat was French brocade, black as midnight, shot through with gold thread. But he wore the luxe fabric with little regard for decorum. The high collar of his shirt framed the bare column of his throat as if he could not be bothered with a cravat, and instead roamed about half-dressed. What a colossal waste. 

When Rhys could bring himself to look at that face, the very first thing he noticed was the striking profile. It was little wonder Rhys had mistook him for his brother; Lord Lawrence shared that same patrician nose and high cheekbones, and that unruly sweep of dark hair. Unlike Timothy, he had a distinguished streak of grey hair, and a cruel slant to his mouth. And then there was that mask. As the other man turned to look at him, Rhys felt again that creeping horror, its edges only slightly dulled in the fading daylight.

The mask covered almost the entire left half of Lord Lawrence’s face, from the hairline to the square cut of his jaw. The material was several shades paler than the skin beneath, lending it a bone-like appearance. Rhys saw now that the green eye was painted on, a masterwork of lifelikeness that nevertheless caused great unease as it did not match the natural movements of its twin. 

The one remaining eye was the blue of deep ice, only colder. “Didn’t your betters teach you not to stare?”

Rhys bristled at the unfriendly tone, but unlike certain gentlemen of questionable provenance, he had been raised to be polite. He bowed his head deferentially. “Apologies, my lord, I mean no disrespect. Thank you for accommodating me in your lovely home.”

Large, brutish fingers lifted a tumbler to that sneering mouth. Those uncanny eyes stared at Rhys over the rim. Something in his gaze raised all the small hairs on Rhys’ body. “Fascinating how almost every word in that sentence was an outright lie. Quite in character, I suppose, for the little peeping tom who’s been sneaking about my home.”

Cold outrage poured its slow way down his spine. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you not the one who intruded upon my private engagement with the lovely Miss Moxxi? You should know you rudely interrupted what was promising to be a perfectly fine evening.”

Rhys snapped his mouth shut. Jack (and it was Jack now--Rhys would not give him the courtesy of his proper title) was watching him steadily. The unmarred half of his face might be considered handsome were it not for the look of disdain etched into every line. 

Rhys felt his hackles rise. He had always loathed bullies. He was accustomed to being treated as lesser simply for his arm, his birth, his station in life. But this was different. The sheer vitriol in that eerie stare was astonishing in its intensity. Rhys could not recall the last time someone had looked at him with such open hostility, and certainly not from someone with whom he had barely exchanged a word. He could feel a rude comment building up behind his chest. He was going to say something he might regret.

Timothy leapt into the conversation valiantly. “It’s all a misunderstanding, I’m sure. Foul weather brought Rhys to our door, and we are lucky to have his good company. Angel and I have particularly enjoyed his tales of a glamorous life as a gentlemen’s outfitter.”

“A businessman,” Jack said in the same tones as one might say ‘syphilitic gutter tramp’. “How pedestrian.”

A small part of Rhys cautioned that he should be the better man, but its voice was lost amidst the rush of anger in his ears. “We cannot all live in wanton luxury while profiting off the labours of others,” he said through gritted teeth.

Jack only gave him a slow smile in response. “Brave words for someone who is lodging here by the grace of my generosity.”

“I do not want to be here! Yet I cannot leave because of you.”

“Is that so? I do not recall pushing you down the stairs. You are as clumsy as you are rude, though I supposed that is all that can be expected from someone so careless as to lose an arm.”

“Jack, please!” Timothy interjected, sounding appalled. 

Dumbstruck, Rhys could only glare daggers at the man, though it had little effect.

Jack’s gaze skated from him as if Rhys was beneath his notice. “I want this supercilious little dandy gone by sundown.”

“Absolutely not,” Timothy snapped. “He is my guest, and I will not allow him to be driven away even if he was in any condition to travel.”

Jack turned that hot poker gaze upon his brother. “Need I remind you, dear Timothy, that I am Hyperion’s lord.”

“And need I remind you,” Timothy volleyed, “that I have been its sole caretaker while you’ve drowned yourself in drink and whores.”

Jack sneered. “And you wear your crown of thorns so nobly. You may have taken a vow of asceticism, but I’ve done no such thing.”

Timothy looked grimly determined under the onslaught. “Rhys is my guest and he will stay. I won’t hear any argument against it.”

Jack tapped a finger on the tumbler in his hand, his signet ring chiming unpleasantly in the heavy silence. The dogs watched the three of them like this was the best sport they had had all day. At last Jack made a contemptuous sounds and drained his cup. “You were always a fool for a pretty piece, Timmy. I hope this one does not end so poorly as the last.”

Colour drained from Timothy’s face as if he had been slapped. He pressed his lips together like he was afraid of what he might say. 

As Jack rose from his seat, Rhys took an involuntary step back. Like his brother, Jack was broad shouldered and well built, but there was an undercurrent of malevolence to him that made Rhys’ breath catch. His smile was the grin of a fox right before it snapped through the neck of a hare. “Do enjoy your stay, Rhysie. I will caution that you do not go wandering about in the night. Who knows what misfortunes may befall a rude little man.”

With that, he swept from the room with a decisive snap of his coattails, the hounds close on his heels. 

Jack’s absence was the passing over of a stormfront. Rhys could breathe again, though he was still trembling with indignity. He felt like he had just survived a mugging in a dark alley. 

Timothy looked just as shaken as he felt. Rhys could not help but think that the other man rarely made a habit of standing up to his overbearing sibling. 

“I’m sorry,” he offered in the tense silence, “I do not wish to cause any difficulty between you two.”

Timothy let out a long breath and visibly drew himself together. “No, it is I who should apologise. Jack has been abominably rude, and I have no excuse other than that he has not been himself since the fire.” 

In Rhys’ experience, people did not change drastically overnight. He suspected that Jack had always been a bastard, though he wisely kept that thought to himself. He declined Timothy’s invitation to dinner, claiming a headache that was not entirely feigned. His stomach was still in knots from the encounter and he had no wish to subject himself further to Jack’s questionable charms. 

Looking rather relieved, Timothy promised that he would have some food delivered to his rooms and bid him good evening. Rhys retired to his room and did no further wandering for the remainder of the night. 

*

The week of confinement felt like one of the longest of his life. Rhys spent the first few days pacing the limits of his room, wary of encountering Jack. He tried to sew a little, but nerves made sitting still a trial. Despite its luxurious furnishings, his room offered little in the way of entertainment, and there was only so much time he could spend gazing out the windows. The view was hardly inspiring: what once must have been lush gardens was now a tangle of briars edging into the bleak, dense woods. 

At times he would glimpse Jack riding out, perched like a crow atop his horse, his two beasts trotting after him. Rhys always ducked out of sight before the other man could catch him peeping. 

Timothy visited him regularly, to bring tea or conversation. Those little moments quickly became the highlight of his days. But even that did little to lift his spirits. Rhys was accustomed to working, having laboured for the past decade to build his trade and his reputation. Idleness sat poorly with him. 

When he tired of the confines of his room, Rhys roamed the house, alert to any sign of Jack. But it seemed the devil of Hyperion divided his time equally between sleeping off the excesses of the night before or gallivanting about beyond these walls. The few rare times they were under the same roof, Rhys was thankful for that distinctive clomping of boots coming down the hall, as it provided him sufficient time to turn in the opposite direction. In such a way, he hardly had to acknowledge Jack’s existence. 

Slowly he began to discover a little charm amidst the dreariness of the place. The library was a rare treat. It was the one room in the entire house that had the most sun. The books stuffed amongst the floor-to-ceiling bookcases held little interest for him, but the soft cushioned benches lining its large bay windows were the perfect spot to do his work. As his headache eased, Rhys often found himself here, needle and thread in hand. 

As he entered today, he found Miss Lawrence curled up by one of the windows, nose buried in a book. She looked up at his entry and hastily tidied her skirts into a more proper arrangement. He noted that she again had on long gloves that merged directly into her sleeves, leaving no skin exposed. 

Rhys gave her a reassuring grin. “Please, don’t fuss on my account, I do not wish to drive you away. May I sit with you? The afternoon light is best in this spot.”

She nodded and made room for him. Rhys sat down with his bag of tools and a new shirt he was making. 

They sat in companionable silence for a little while, he working on his garment and she peeping at him over the top of her book. After a moment, Rhys tilted his hand so she could have an unobstructed view. “I’m adding a pick stitch to the hem. It holds strongly and creates a lovely finish to the garment. Do you sew?”

“They make me embroider things. I hate it. It’s finicky and I keep pricking my fingers.”

“Ah, see, that’s the beauty of a wooden hand - no errant needle jabs.”

She gave him a quicksilver smile, then asked, “May I see it?”

He handed over the garment, but she shook her head. “No, I mean your arm.”

Rhys hesitated. He didn’t enjoy being the subject of anyone’s pity, but he had the feeling Miss Lawrence was only curious. He held out his arm, palm up, and let her take it into her small gloved hands. 

She made a sound of wonder as she toyed with the articulated joints, tracing at the whorls of woodgrain. “It’s so cleverly made, and you are so deft with it. Have you had it a very long time?”

“Yes, in many ways it is an improvement on the original.”

“How did you lose your arm?” So direct a question would normally irritate him, but her large blue eyes were so guileless that he could not bring himself to be angry with her. 

“I was born without it,” he said candidly. “My mother died not long after, and my father raised my sisters and I.” The story often drew him much sympathy, though he was not pained by it. It had been thus his whole life, and for the most part life had been good to him.

“My mother is dead too,” she said. “Perished in the fire.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

She bit her lip and shrugged with unladylike frankness. “It was many years ago, I’ve forgotten what she was like.”

He blinked, unsure if he had misheard. “Pardon my question, but how long ago was the fire?”

“Six years, perhaps.”

Six years! Rhys sat back in shock. Six years she had been living in this great mausoleum, with its closed off rooms and unchecked damage. He felt a great surge of sympathy for her. It was awful enough to have to suffer with such a monster of a father, let alone doing so in such a house. 

He wondered again why Jack had not had the damage addressed. It was certainly not from lack of money. To think that the family had moved about these bleak corridors for so long like it was something ordinary. Little wonder there were rumours of ghosts. 

She ran her fingers over his prosthesis one last time and released him. Glancing at him from the corner of her eyes, she visibly gathered her courage and said, “May I show you something?”

“Of course.”

Very slowly, she stretched out her arms and drew off her long gloves. Rhys caught his breath at what she revealed. While her right arm was creamy pale and unblemished, her left was a mass of scar tissue, warped and shiny with age. The burned and twisted flesh stretched from her little fingertips up into the sleeve of her dress.

Rhys’ heart clenched hard at the sight. He could not begin to imagine the pain such an injury would have caused, nor how much it must trouble a pretty young girl to have such terrible scarring. 

She was watching him with her lip between her teeth, waiting for his judgement. It struck him suddenly that few would have been given the privilege of seeing her so vulnerable. He gave her a heartfelt grin. “I see now that we are both unique. I think we must be destined to be very good friends.”

At that, the tension fell away from her. Her answering grin was bright as sunlight after a storm. “When I’m sick of practicing on the pianoforte I claim that my arm hurts and they leave me be. It doesn’t, of course, but people give in easily whenever I refer to it.”

And those bright blue eyes would certainly help in the convincing, Rhys had no doubt. He felt a stab for pity for all of the young men doomed to fall at her feet. They would be entirely defenseless against her charms. “You are a cunning little thing, Miss Lawrence, and very lovely besides. You would be very popular at all the grand balls.”

“I’ve never gone dancing,” she said wistfully. “I think I should enjoy it very much.”

“I could teach you if you’d like.”

She lit up, big blue eyes shining with anticipation. “Really? Oh please, I would dearly love that. Are you a very good dancer?”

“Yes,” he lied through his teeth. He had two left feet and all the grace of a stick tumbling down the stairs, but he saw no need to disappoint her with the truth. He knew enough to be able to pass on the basics. “It would be my pleasure to show you, Miss Lawrence. Shall we begin tomorrow, after breakfast?”

“That sounds wonderful!” She gave him a big grin and took his wooden hand in hers. “I hope you will stay for a very long time.”

He could only give her a strained smile in answer. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he intended to flee the minute Dr Autohn allowed it. It cannot be helped; he had no desire to test the limits of Jack’s dubious hospitality, and it would not be the first time he had left a pretty young lady broken hearted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened in Timothy's past? Why is Jack such a dick? How much purple prose must you suffer through before the banging starts? All will be revealed in time...
> 
> Btw, the two dogs are meant to be the AU version of the digijacks because I love them too much to leave them out.


End file.
